The Case of the Backward Mule

      “The master has done it again! A plot that never lets down from beginning to end, human and fascinating characters, a story told with authentic punch. Terry Clane, a quiet fellow, just back from China where he has been working on a secret government mission, runs into murder when he walks into San Francisco. Whisked straight to the police, he puts to use the result of his experiences in the Orient in order to beat the lie detector. It’s certainly excellent mystery fare.”—The Montreal Gazette

      Arsenical Press

      Originally published by William Morrow and Co., 1946

      Copyright by Erle Stanley Gardner

      All rights reserved

      ISBN: 978-1-927551-15-8

      CHAPTER ONE

      AS THE big steamer eased her way through the Golden Gate, the western sun highlighted the sides of San Francisco’s buildings until the city seemed to be all white, rising in stately splendor from the blue water.

      Terry Clane, returning from the Orient, fought back an impulse of exultation.

      Steeped in the philosophy of those wise men who dwelt in hidden monasteries where studies might be pursued in peace, Clane knew that triumph and defeat were both impostors, that success and failure were but different facets of the same jewel. Yet he knew also that here in San Francisco there was work to be done—dangerous work, and he was eager to get at it, eager to see once more his native land.

      Standing at the rail, the wind ruffling his dark wavy hair, he watched the changing scenery of the shoreline until the vessel glided smoothly into the dock.

      The sun had now set and a new moon hung over the city.

      It was a delicately arched new moon, slender, graceful and promising, the moon which Chinese call “The Moon of the Maiden’s Eyebrow.”

      Seeing that moon, Terry Clane thought of Sou Ha, the Chinese daughter of Chu Kee, thought also of Cynthia Renton. Cynthia would doubtless be there at the dock to meet him, and following that meeting….

      The gang-planks were run aboard and for the next thirty minutes Clane was busily engrossed with the formalities of disembarking. Finally, his baggage having been inspected by Customs, Clane moved towards the fence-like structure which separated the incoming passengers from those who had come to greet them.

      Through the openings in the fence Clane saw his trusted confidential man, Yat T’oy, sitting calmly on a bench, hands folded in his lap, waiting. Clane caught Yat T’oy’s eye.

      His smile brought no answering gleam of recognition. Yat T’oy looked at him with wooden-faced indifference, turned calmly away, not too hurriedly, not too slowly.

      Clane, perplexed, looked around for Cynthia Renton. She was nowhere in sight.

      Clane emerged from the narrow passageway, caught the eye of a newsboy, flipped him a quarter and took one of the late papers, which he folded under his arm. He started towards Yat T’oy, proceeding cautiously now, knowing that Yat T’oy’s wooden-faced indifference masked some warning which the ancient Chinese servant dared not give.

      And now Clane was conscious of eyes that were resting upon him with more than casual interest. A man by the door, another by the baggage-truck, a third at the gate.

      Clane walked past the bench where Yat T’oy was seated, taking care not even to look at the old man.

      Yat T’oy took a cigarette from his pocket, fumbled awkwardly for a match. “Ngai him,” he said as though merely muttering some imprecation at the failure of the match to light the cigarette.

      Clane hardly needed the Chinese warning of danger. He walked casually away from Yat T’oy, stood by the gate waiting for his luggage to be brought out.

      The three men kept their eyes on him, but made no move.

      Clane yawned, thought of the newspaper under his arm, unfolded it and snapped it open.

      The action might have been a signal. The three men converged on him at once, almost frantic in their haste.

      “You’re Clane?” one of the men said. “Terry Clane?”

      “Right.”

      The man took his right arm, another took his left. “Just a minute, buddy, it’ll only take a minute. Someone wants to ask you some questions.”

      “What about?” Clane asked.

      “We wouldn’t know,” the man said, and firmly removed the newspaper from Clane’s hands.

      “But look here,” Clane began, “you can’t...”

      “Take it easy, buddy, take it easy,” the men said.

      The third man was behind now and they were moving steadily forward.

      Clane held back.

      The pressure from behind increased and the pace was accelerated. He was rushed into a big black sedan, doors slammed, a motor throbbed to life and almost instantly a siren wailed into a low-voiced demand for the right of way, a wail which soon became a screaming, insistent command as the car rushed into speed.

      Clane, settling back against the cushions, surrendered to the inevitable, but in the back of his mind he filed one fact for reference. These men had been watching him to see what he would do, to see with whom he would speak, where he would go. Yet one thing had forced their hands, one thing which had evidently been carefully agreed upon in advance. Clane was to have no opportunity to glance at the evening newspaper. The minute he opened that newspaper, the men had gone into action.

      It was an interesting fact to which Clane gave due consideration so that that which was to happen next would not come as too great a surprise.

      CHAPTER TWO

      TERRY CLANE lit a cigarette, settled back comfortably in the chair. Across the desk, Police Captain Jordon adjusted a combination desk lamp and ash-tray so that it was midway between them, a gesture apparently intended to make the ash receptacle mutually convenient.

      Terry Clane, however, noticing the peculiar grilled sides of the light-stand, realized that there was a microphone concealed within the metallic base, and that by placing it exactly between them Captain Jordon had assured himself that the conversation would be duly recorded on waxed cylinders.

      “Mr. Clane,” the police captain said, Tm not going to take more than a few minutes of your time. I realize how anxious you are to be free to see the city, so I’ll be frank—and abrupt.”

      “Thank you, Captain.”

      “You’ve just returned from the Orient, Mr. Clane?”

      “Yes. Your men were waiting for me when the boat docked.”

      “I take it you know why.”

      “Frankly, I do not.”

      “You have been in the Orient for some time?”

      “Yes.”

      “War work?”

      “Yes.

      “And before that you were an old hand in the Orient?”

      “I had lived in China, studied there.

      “I believe you once specialized on the art of concentration in some Chinese monastery?”

      “Yes, I spent two years in study.”

      “You became adept in the art of concentration?”

      “I was a novice. I learned a little.”

      “Learned to concentrate for some specified period of time?”

      “Yes.”